


Do Something

by Desdimonda



Category: Shall We Date?: Obey Me!
Genre: Biting, Control, F/M, First Time, Gentle femdom, Quickies, Reader-Insert, Table Sex, Teasing, adoration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:54:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23793469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Desdimonda/pseuds/Desdimonda
Summary: You could call it a 'borrowing sugar from my friend and then we fuck' fic I guess.MC is tired of Mammon doing nothing, so she takes things into her own hands to make sure he does something.-------------------Feather light, fingers glance his shoulder, catching his RAD badge, as a small “Thank you” touches your lips. It’s barely enough for him. And it’s not even needed. But you can’t stop.“I didn’t do nothin’.”You pause, stopping by his ear. Close, so close, the rhythm of his heart touches your own. “Shame.”
Relationships: Main Character/Mammon (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!), Mammon (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!) & Reader, Mammon (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)/Original Female Character(s), Mammon (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)/Reader
Comments: 10
Kudos: 523





	Do Something

You laugh, Satan’s hand drawing down your back, touching where he knows his pact seal sits, in his scribe. You’re both late, far too late for breakfast with all that’s left is cereal.

Satan takes the seat next to you. You sit opposite Mammon, the only one left, who cannot stop watching you; every motion imprinted as you get your breakfast, as you pour some juice, as you laugh at something Satan said about last night. 

“What episode did we leave it at? It’s all blurred into one,” you say a little too close to Satan, catching Mammon’s eye as he continues to stare, unashamed, his phone forgotten in his hands.

“Eighteen, I think,” says Satan, ignoring his elder brother, outright. “Tea?”

“Please,” you say, looking at Mammon, his leg bouncing uncontrollably under the table. 

“What you two laughing about, huh?” There’s a venom to his words; words that have lost their fire. But it’s only simmering, waiting for you to kindle.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” Satan smiles, and sips his tea. After the sip, he leans in to whisper, brushing a lock of your hair aside so it doesn’t catch his lips. It’s inane. Nothing. But still, you laugh, licking your lips as you feel Mammon _all over you._

“Is that the sugar?” You know it is. It’s beside Mammon’s arm. Too close for you to reach, but easy enough for him to pass. 

He refuses. Clicking painted nails on the back of his D.D.D. as you await his answer. “You got legs ain’t ya?”

You do. You stand, achingly slow, knowing how much he won’t be able to resist, you. The walk to his side is slow, and your hand trails along the table top, catching plate, cutlery, lightly - _lightly. Y_ ou brush past his back, punctuated with a sigh. It touches his hair. He’s so still. As you walk around, around, his familiar scent filling the air as you bend against his side to pick up the dish of sugar, your skirt riding up, up, so close to his arm you can feel his warmth. 

His phone screen is off, blank. Here’s staring at nothing, for all he can see is _you_.

Feather light, fingers glance his shoulder, catching his RAD badge, as a small “Thank you” touches your lips. It’s barely enough for him. And it’s not even needed. But you can’t stop.

“I didn’t do nothin’.”

You pause, stopping by his ear. Close, _so close_ , the rhythm of his heart touches your own. “Shame.”

Mammon looks up, and you’re both alone. Satan, gone, the span of the dining room, shrunk to just two. He stands, suddenly, the chair nearly falling to the floor, you stumble. Mammon is taller than you, and breaks the gap with a step. 

But you _tower_ over him, as you look up.

“What the hell was that?” he says, as if an answer is his right. Maybe it is. 

“You’ll have to be more specific.” You twist the spoon in the sugar, lifting it up, letting the grains fall lightly. 

A snarl, blue eyes churning to a storm as he clutches his phone so tightly, you’re sure it might crack. “All of it.”

You stare at the teaspoon of sugar, and lick, grains of sugar sweetening your tongue as you let him wait. “I usually call it breakfast.”

Mammon flinches, his eyes following the curl of your tongue. He forgets to breathe. “C-cut the shit.” You smile. There’s fangs there now, claws too. “Y-you and Satan?” Despite his fury, he stumbles, the scenario sickly on his lips.

“Friends,” you say. Simply. It worked.

“Oh. R-right. It just - just didn’t look-”

You drop the bowl of sugar on the table, grains scattering, endlessly. “If you want me, _do something.”_ Turning, you begin to leave.

A step, two, the walk is agony. Your hand slips, slides over the top of the chairs, catching the carved decor. Each click of your nail, is so loud; each step, is thunder; each thrum of your heart, deafening. You think you’ve lost by the time you reach the last chair, your last step heavy - 

-but he catches your hand, spinning you around so hard you collide, body to chest, back to table, his hips pinning you in place. He’s already rock hard, and grinds once against you, but no more. Fingers, a tremble of fervour, wash across your cheeks.

Even though he looks down at you, it feels as if he’s on his knees.

For he waits; he waits, as if for consent-

-or _command._

And for a while, you just let him wait. You hold his blue eyes, still the roar of a storm. You listen to the way he breathes, surprisingly even, as if this is where his body is meant to be. There’s a blush beneath his skin, as you expected. You draw a thumb across a cheek; a validation.

It drops to his lips, parting them for a second, and you spy his fangs, elongated, their point ready to play.

He moans, but doesn’t speak. You haven’t let him, yet. 

“Make me feel with your body,” you whisper against his lips. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel him _whine. “_ What you make me feel with your eyes.” You pause. “Quickly.”

One last look, one last smile from you, and he submits.

Unleashed.

And for the first time, you kiss. Hungry, messy, the drag of his fangs catching your lips as you seek more, and more. He tastes warm. The remnants of spiced tea lingering on lips that were moments ago, so bitter. 

You’re grateful at your choice of a skirt today. And as he spreads your legs with a knee, you can feel his leg shake. 

Pulling him closer by the tie, you kiss the shell of his ear. “I want you, Mammon.” There’s a reassurance there you know he needs. And it works. 

You hear him smirk, just as his belt buckle clicks open beneath your hand, the strain against his trousers unbearable, to you, to him.

“You don’t gotta tell me somethin’ so obvious,” he says, his faux confidence twinkling in his words. And you _love it_. 

A single finger pulls on your soaked underwear, so careful of his claw, and he groans, drawing that finger, up, and down, the smooth knuckle brushing the edge of your clit before he just, pulls away.

You move with his touch, _begging_ in a way you never intended. But this is _your Mammon_.

You’re just about to beg him to put it back when you’re on the edge of the table, when you’re hoisted around his waist, when his cock meets the outside of your wet panties, pressing, begging, tip to clit. 

A cry, loud, needy, slips past your lips. But it’s quickly caught in his, smothered away to a moan you share, the sugar coating his kiss. 

Before you know, he’s ripped your panties in two with a claw and you can feel his hand tremble. He doesn’t stop kissing you, devouring every last inch of you until you can barely breathe. You pull on his tie, tightening.

“I thought you wanted this,” he says, but with a sparkle, a fang denting the edge of his lip.

You pull his tie again. So hard he stumbles, the tip of his cock dragging against your clit. His face is a breath apart from yours, tilted, back. Gazing up at his goddess, a silent prayer thankful that he’s allowed to rise from his knees. So you praise him. A drag of kisses biting his jawline, until you whisper against his cheek, “I need it.”

Then he pulls back, and _thrusts._ So hard you can feel the thrum of his power, a power he cares nothing if it means that he has you. You. 

You, wrapped in an arm, fingers twisting through your hair as he holds you close. Claws, dimple deep into your thigh as he keeps you steady with each thrust, shifting you across the table a little each time. It catches your breath, the power, the hunger, and hearing him growl when you’re too far away, only to drag you back, with a rough hand, your bodies colliding, colliding into a kiss, marred with moans and whispers - whispers of your name. A chant. An affirmation that it’s you, you, _you-_

_- **his**._

You’re _so wet._ Your thighs slick every time he moves, feeling his cock brush against them with every thrust. You almost bite off your lip holding back your cries. A part of you wants to drop to your knees and wrap your noisy lips around his cock, thick, slicked wet, hard for only you. But you’re insatiable. The way he moves, he pleases you, he begs for your approval with every inch of his body. 

And he has it.

You cry his name, a beg, as he hits your spot again, your body shivering. Desperately, you try to pull it back. This is the dining room, after all.

Heels dig into his ass, round and firm. You press hard, securing your legs higher. The angle shifts and you see white. You’re nearly there.

But he pulls you back. With a bite.

Fangs find your neck, followed by a rumble of a growl, right against your throat. He doesn’t draw blood. He knows he’s not yet allowed, but it’s hard enough that you can feel the tremble of his body right through to yours as he thrusts again, and again, huffing against your skin, a whimper, a moan, a spell of your name.

You notice your pact seal with him starts to glow as he gets faster, as his eyes close, as his fingers grip your hair, like a vice.

Then he climaxes, so suddenly, his whole body shaking as he fills you up with his hot, sticky seed, his eyes wide and bright blue as the eye of the storm. 

You hold him, forehead to forehead, breaths and bodies as one. 

Claws retracted, he rubs a thumb across your clit, again, again, sticky with his cum. And he thrusts. Gently. The sensitivity making him shudder. But his absolute desire to please, making you climax, there, then. 

His name cracks against your throat, raw, marked by his kiss. And for a second, you, are his servant.

“Mammon,” fingers drag through white hair, kisses find anywhere, anything. He looks at you, side eyed, his half cocked smile exactly what you wanted to see. “Mammon,” you say again, unintended. 

“The _Great_ Mammon,” he corrects.

You both, just laugh as he gently lifts you off the table, setting you down as if you might break. 

“I, uh, s-sorry about your underwear,” he says, looking down, a blush cresting his cheeks. 

Your legs shake, and you can barely stand, nor hear from the ringing in your ears. But you don’t let him know that as you hold him still by his tie, and kiss. “Buy me a new pair.” You pause. “And I’ll model them for you.

His cock is still out, pressed between damp thighs, messing the underside of your skirt. You press your body, watching him writhe. “We’re late for class.”

You turn and leave, pulling on his leash.


End file.
